


Waiting for a Hero

by MaraudersMap_365



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Eventual Fluff, Fear of Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, Not too much, Shock, Stucky - Freeform, bit of Violence, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaraudersMap_365/pseuds/MaraudersMap_365
Summary: "It's HYDRA, here for me, not you. He might have been the only one, but I doubt it. Get behind this table, Buck, where you can see the door. If anyone besides me comes in, you've gotta use this." He pushed the handgun into Bucky's grip.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	Waiting for a Hero

"Well, its pretty hard to feel unsafe with you standing beside me, pal,' he grinned at Steve, who blushed but stood a little prouder.  
It was a hot day in Manhattan, one that made the sweat cling to every available surface and somehow made the odour of New York City just the tiniest bit more unbearable. Travelling by subway, a gruelling experience even in the cool depths of the underground, was almost impossible, meaning many simply took to the streets, suit clad and briefcased, while others honked depressively from their air-conditioned vehicles.  
Many New Yorkers were feeling the exhaustion that arrived on the sparse breeze, but not Bucky. Bucky was elated, a mood that he seemed to personify lately. The reasoning behind this contagious sort of exhilaration was walking alongside him, wearing a very similar expression. Every so often, they would make eye contact, then look away, grinning a little stupidly.  
Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes were dating.  
Bucky had spent the past 6 years in Romania working for the Stark Outreach Centre there. He, like every citizen on the planet who owned a television, had watched aliens and space-worms attacking Manhattan, thousands of miles away, and had also witnessed the 6 tiny figures (well, 5 tiny and one big and green) assigned to protect them and experienced the same shock as everyone when the aliens were sent back to who-knows-where. When he'd returned to NYC a few years later, he never could have guessed that the shy, awkward man he'd run into (spilling blueprints and papers everywhere, he might add) could have been the shield-bearing, truth-telling Captain America.  
Yet here they were, 6 months later.

They walked into the library, immediately feeling the difference between the stuffy Manhattan air and the cool calm that one can only find between the pages of a well-loved book. The sheer size of the library always took Bucky aback, hundreds of rows holding thousands of pages of knowledge; it was easy to get lost.  
It had become one of their habits; when they needed a change of pace or something to distract them, they went to the library, usually focusing on a specific subject. Steve followed Bucky to their normal seat at the very back, a small room down a narrow hallway of shelves with a few wooden tables and chairs. It was deserted except for a single security guard, looking bored and sleepy.  
"Well, what's the topic today?" he asked. Bucky pushed his too-long hair out of his face, smirking a little as Steve's eyes followed the motion.  
"I was thinking trains."  
Steve nodded, walking over to the dedicated section, but a slight frown line appeared on his forehead. Before Bucky could ask why, Steve volunteered the information.  
"Back in the war, we had to zip-line onto the top of a train. One of the most intense situations of my life. Attacked as soon as we stepped onboard; a bomb blew off the entire side of a train car. One of my friends managed to steal and a gun and we shoved one guy right out of the train. He fell about a thousand feet. I still regret it; no one deserved that."  
Oh _Steve_. Leave it to him to regret taking the life of someone trying to take his.  
"He was trying to kill you, Steve," Bucky said, softly. "You were doing what had to be done. I don't blame you." Steve looked grateful but but no less regretful.  
"Hey, let's pick a different subject. I think I've seen some books here on Argentinian wool-making, if you're interested."  
Steve lifted his head, laughing, and it was at that precise moment that the lights went out.

This fact was not worrying; lights going out was surprising but not unique. However they both looked up at the ceiling in mild confusion.  
"Hasn't started raining, has it?" Bucky wondered aloud. There had been nothing on the forecast but sun for the next week-and-a-half. Steve shook his head, walking towards the door.  
"We should probably go help them. Generators are tricky to get going sometimes. I remember one time at the tower-" his voice was cut off abruptly as the door at the end of the hall slammed shut, knocking a few books off their shelves.  
Now something was definitely wrong. With a very quick change of his mind, Steve strode back over in two large steps and firmly pushed Bucky behind him, pulling a knife that Bucky hadn't noticed out of his pocket. Bucky, feeling useless and terrified, could only peer behind a broad shoulder with wide eyes at the spot of darkness that was the door. Steve was tense, readying for a fight, standing tall and listening intently. The only light was from a distant window on the side of the room, and he intentionally stared in the other direction, sure that if someone was going to attack them, it would be from the dark.  
A realisation hit Bucky like a freight train. Not daring to speak, he reached out and tapped a single message on Steve's arm:  
**G-U-A-R-D G-O-N-E**.  
Steve gave the tiniest nod of understanding, raising the knife higher.

That's when a shot rang out.

Steve was so quick to shove Bucky to the floor that he didn't process it until his face was pressed to the blue linoleum rug. His heart hammered so wildly in his chest that he was afraid it would be visible through his shirt. Steve himself was a blur, apparently having been able to pinpoint their attacker based on the gunshot. There was a smash and a grunt of pain, then a loud thump that could only be a body hitting the floor echoed out like a second gunshot.

He was back in an instant, kneeling and helping Bucky into a sitting position.  
"Are you hurt?" he mutely shook his head, lately registering that Steve was now holding out a handgun, the same one that could have murdered them seconds before.  
He spoke softly, but urgently.  
"It's HYDRA, here for me, not you. He might have been the only one, but I doubt it. Get behind this table, Buck, where you can see the door. If anyone besides me comes in, you've gotta use this." He pushed the handgun into Bucky's grip. His faux comforting words that Bucky was not the target of this attack did not have the calming impression Steve was clearly going for.  
"You gotta make the first move if they attack. When I come back, I'll announce myself, nice and loud. Stay here no matter what, okay?" Their eyes met.  
He nodded, numbly, taking the gun with slightly trembling fingers.  
"That's it. I'll be back soon, don't go anywhere."  
He stood up and turned around towards the door. In that single movement, Steve Rogers disappeared, and Captain America stood in his place. He struck a terrifying figure and Bucky, through his fear, could understand why no HYDRA soldier ever stood a chance against him.

Fighting urgently against the desire to call him back, Bucky watched as he reached the hallway door, paused, then opened it with a crack. It slammed behind him with impossible finality, and Bucky realised at that moment that he could die here, kneeling under a table and waiting for his blond saviour.

It didn't seem possible that they had walked into this trap, completely ignorant to the fact that the building was possibly surrounded by people trying to kill them. How had they not seen?  
He wanted to help Steve. He wanted to run out behind him and watch his stupidly broad six, to hurt anyone who dared attack someone so good, but he knew he couldn't. He'd spent half his life with his nose in a book, couldn't throw a satisfactory punch to save his skin, and just barely knew how to operate the gun that sat in his hands with a sickening sort of innocence. He would be a hinderance if he left now, could get Steve hurt, could get himself killed. Another loud bang emanated from a distant room, and he felt his heart beat ever faster.  
There was no movement from the unconscious figure that had tried to kill them minutes before, and Bucky wondered, disconnectedly, if Steve had actually killed him.  
He tightened his hold on the handgun, remembering faintly how he'd once seen Natasha Romanoff hold a gun 6 years prior in Romania, which was feeling more and more like a dream the longer he sat kneeling by the table. Steady, two-handed grip, aimed right at the rectangle of darkness that could open at any second.  
Though he was loathe to admit it, his breathing had become short and panicked and he shook so much from his kneeling position that it took effort to not drop the gun. There were sirens outside.

 _"When I come back, I'll announce myself, nice and loud."_ That was what Steve had said. If Bucky was going to use this gun, then he knew what needed to happen once he pulled the trigger. The metal felt like a deadweight in his hand, but he mustered his courage, facing unblinkingly at the door, when he suddenly heard movement from just beyond.  
Bucky strained his ear, listening for any sign that it was his boyfriend and not an attacker. It sounded like shifting wood, and he wondered if Steve had barricaded him in to give him more protection.  
In the quiet, his breathing seemed decibels higher than normal, and the shifting outside continued. He'd never been in a life-or-death situation before. Once, back in Romania, a man had attempted to mug him and knife-point. However, spurred on by overconfidence and the success of the day, he'd landed a fairly accurate kick to the ribcage that sent the man and knife flying in opposite directions. He'd then bolted and locked himself in his apartment for a few hours in blind panic, but the elation of the moment had definitely been worth it.

There was more shifting wood, and with a lurch of fear, Bucky saw the beam of a flashlight from underneath the door, and heard a heavy footstep. This wasn't Steve.  
His finger steadied on the trigger, ready for what it knew it was about to do.

There was a single moment, the space between two heartbeats, in which the door flew open and a figure stood, directing both his flashlight and pistol into the darkness, precisely where he was kneeling.  
Then the moment was shattered, and with a deafening _bang_ , the figure crumpled to the floor, unmoving.  
The flashlight rolled across the floor, hitting the bookshelf with a miniscule tap. 

All feeling seemed to have left him with the flight of the bullet. The only two thoughts left were than he couldn't put the gun down yet and that Steve had surely heard the noise. It was still ringing, though that may have just been his ears. The sirens continued to wail outside.  


A stretch of time passed. Seconds, or maybe hours or years, before a very different noise echoed from behind the half-open door.  
"Bucky?" The voice gave Bucky such relief that it temporarily stilled his shaking form. But he couldn't put the gun down; he had to be sure, he _needed_ to be sure.  
"Buck!" The voice sounded worried now, and the footsteps quickened.  
He managed to prise open his vocal chords enough to whisper, 'here,' detachedly knowing Steve's sensitive hearing would pick it up, if it was Steve at all.  


A second figure appeared in the dark doorway, taller and broader than the man who had come in before. With a single sweeping glance, he seemed to take everything in, from the figure on the floor to the gun that was still pointed at his chest.  
He put his hands up slowly, approaching like one would a wounded animal.  
"Hey, Buck," he said, softly. He needed to be sure, had to see his face, he couldn't let his guard down-  
"It's Steve, can you hear me? You did so well, I'm really proud of you."  
Bucky's grip wavered, and he felt the gun's barrel point more towards the floor than the approaching figure.  
"Help arrived, managed to get everyone out safely," he continued, conversationally. The barrel dipped downward a few more inches, and the man, _Steve_ , now kneeled in front of him.  
And then Steve's hand was on his, gently taking the gun and turning the safety on.  
The tension drained out of him sharply like a blow to the stomach, and he slumped against Steve's broad chest, feeling warm arms tighten around his shaking form. He closed his eyes, though the change in lighting was nearly insignificant.  
"It's okay, it's okay, you're safe, I promise." He felt the voice more than he heard it, vibrating through his chest. They stayed like that for several minutes, quiet and unmoving, simply embracing each other. Steve spoke first, still a little slowly, which Bucky appreciated.  


"Are you hurt? We can go now, but I need to make sure you're okay."  
"No," he managed, "I'm okay."  
Steve paused, still rubbing Bucky's arms, and then said, "Okay...can you nod or shake your head? I don't...I don't speak Romanian, I'm sorry." That surprised him; he hadn't realised he wasn't speaking English. He shook his head instead, and Steve gave a little relieved sigh. "Okay, that's great. Let's try and stand up; it'll be better once we get outside."  
He opened his eyes and nodded, surprised to find that the lights had turned back on during their embrace. Leaning mostly on Steve, his legs shaky, they made their way slowly down the hall.  
Their progress was impeded, however, when they reached the end of the hall, and he let out an involuntary cry of alarm and jumped backwards, staring down at the man that had left his mind for a few moments, but was now back in full colour.  
Bucky had killed a man. Any doubt that he had simply been incapacitated was wiped in an instant. He never thought he could ever have had such good aim.  
Steve took his face and gently turned it towards himself. "I know," he said, "I know. Let's keep going."

The next few minutes seemed like a blur, a video that kept freezing and returning at random. There were people now, many of them, dressed in the navy blue of the NYPD, standing over handcuffed and limp figures alike. None of the prisoners seemed to be moving.  
"Did you do all that yourself?" Bucky mumbled, and Steve looked quickly down at him, concerned. Realising his lingual mistake, he shook his head, and Steve nodded, silently. They continued on.  
Next thing Bucky knew, the sunlight was hitting their faces. Cameras flashed and red and blue police lights hit him like a physical blow after the dark solitude of the library.  
"Captain America, sir! Is it true this was a HYDRA attack?"  
"What happened inside, sir, how did you escape?"  
"Where are the rest of the Avengers?"  
"Captain, how did HYDRA sneak around SHIELD and find their way to you?"  
Voices swirled around them so quickly that Bucky couldn't pinpoint where each one came from. Microphones were pushed under both their noses, all eager for the latest news. Steve's grip on him tightened, afraid he might lose him in the crowd. Steve said something that made them all quiet, something that made all the microphones turn to him instead, and he radiated confidence and deliberation. Then, they moved on, reporters still clamouring for more.  
He talked with a few more people, the NYPD Police Chief, a few policemen and women who were strangely devoid of their handcuffed prisoners, and a disguised SHIELD agent. Bucky just remained quiet the whole time, wishing he could be back in their Brooklyn apartment, hearing about this on the news rather than experiencing it first-hand. It was clear Steve was feeling the same way, but he turned to Bucky and said, "Buck, I think it would be best if we went to the hospital. Not to stay, just to make sure you're okay."  
He shook his head vehemently, though the movement made him dizzy. He looked like he'd expected the answer and didn't push it, though it was clear he wanted to.  


They ended up getting a taxi, and cameras flashed all the way down the block at the as Steve gave the driver the address. They sat close to one another, Bucky nodding off every few seconds onto Steve's chest before waking with a snap. It was on one of these occasions that he saw a stain of blood on the side of Steve's shirt.  
"You're hurt," he said, frowning.  
It must have been English, because Steve glanced down at the wound. momentarily. "Just barely a graze. Probably already healed by now. Don't worry." He _was_ worried, whether or not his brain was currently in a state of shock, but there was no time to continue, seeing as the taxi was pulling up at their Brooklyn apartment. Everything was going too fast. It had felt like seconds since they left the library.  
Half a second later, the elevator was stopping on the 7th floor, and they were getting out in the air-conditioned hallway. Bucky looked around, startled, but Steve, who seemed to be the only permanent and understanding link in this whirlwind, gently took his hand and led him to the apartment door.  
"We'll change and then drink some tea. I know things seem crazy right now, but it's all okay."  
He believed him. They walked in the apartment, and as the door closed behind them, Bucky was suddenly sitting sitting on the couch, a warm mug of tea in his lap. His clothes were different as well. Softer, lighter.  


Steve was still there, next to him, also changed and sitting on the couch, looking upset. When he saw Bucky's confusion, he sat at attention and said, "Everything okay?"  
"How...did we get here?"  
Steve's frown lines deepened. "We took a taxi, Buck."  
"No, I mean..." he gestured weakly at the door, "we were there and now we're here."  
"Oh," he said, smiling softly. "We changed and got a drink. You're in some shock right now, so you might not remember every detail. But you're safe," he sat forward and made eye contact with Bucky, looking desperately determined to drive the point home. Bucky nodded, and relaxed minutely. Wordlessly, they embraced again, and he drifted off in seconds with a large arm around his shoulders.  


It wasn't okay yet, but it would be eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> My first time publishing Stucky fanfic, so please be kind! Comments and constructive criticism are greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
